Let's start by saying THANK YOU to everybody who's been sending good thoughts. I really, genuinely appreciate it. The next time you hear somebody bitch about the Internet, tell them that you personally made me feel better. And that said complainer should bend to kiss your fanny. 'Cause I said so.

Today looks better. After hours of ripping through paper, I finally located my 2002 W2 at work this morning. WTF? All of my other tax docs were safely in an envelope in the file cabinet. Did my brain just spasm out at the wrong moment? Was there a flash of cordite somewhere? A lack of sodium to make the neurons fire?

You can now see the floor in the spare room, and I've been convinced by people who know (the 'rents and Scratcher) not to fuck with paint or carpet. Apparently it won't make any difference. I'll finish cleaning out the Throw Shit In Here room, vacuum, and call it a day. The appraiser comes Saturday at 10:00 a.m. At least it will be over early. That way, if things go badly, I have most of the weekend to drink myself into oblivion. Or celebrate. Truly, I'm not as worried. Should this all go well, I'll be refunded a mortgage payment. That means catching up on a few other bills, which will put me almost at zero. Oh sweet Mary. Sounds delicious.

I do feel it necessary, after all this talk of cleaning, to note that my house is usually very tidy. It's just the one room that's been trashed. Don't want y'all thinking of my place as The Sty.